


A Beautiful Freaking Summer

by MissDragonSpire



Category: Camp Streamix - Fandom, Internet Remix, Original Work
Genre: Chaos, Gen, Mild Language, Reuniting with Best Friends, Sisterly Love, Summer Camp, Threats of Death...?, sibling hijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDragonSpire/pseuds/MissDragonSpire
Summary: Welcome, summer season. June 15th, 2020 A.D.Dear, journal...I would think I am a good person. I mean, there is good in everyone, and I certainly try to be good, and any opportunity to prove that I have yet to be foul is, well, it's great. Good stuff.Then again, we swiped camp shirts and snuck onto a bus of ankle-biters in the baffling pursuit of passing as said ankle-biters, given enough practice of the Bambi eyes and squeaky voices, so we could get a free vacation.I'm sure it'll be a beautiful freaking summer.(Based loosely off the Heathers opening number, Beautiful.)
Kudos: 3





	A Beautiful Freaking Summer

Welcome, summer season. June 15th, 2020 A.D.

Dear, journal...

I would think I am a good person. I mean, there is good in everyone, and I certainly try to be good, and any opportunity to prove that I have yet to be foul is, well, it's great. Good stuff.

Then again, we swiped camp shirts and snuck onto a bus of ankle-biters in the baffling pursuit of passing as said ankle-biters, given enough practice of the Bambi eyes and squeaky voices, so we could get a free vacation. Call me morally grey.

But morality is a tricky thing nowadays, isn't it? I mean... it's like a charcoal, meant to be smeared, to paint the specific situation into a picture not nearly as terrible as first viewed. You gotta know how to wash the incriminating stains, is all. 

The sun rises. Light filters through the fogged windows and reflects off my scales, green sparkles flitting about a graffitied ceiling, across the common drivel, like "X was here!", and the obscene gestures that call to question child innocence. Or adult maturity. It's a bumpy ride, constant bumpiness, and every sway of my head to the window or against a kid's skull makes my own want to pop. That, and the amount of pink wads under the seats...

How did this dingy tub manage such a number of kids? The endless, disruptive chatter in the rows ahead of us, it is a force of doom coming nigh, the chorus from the ninth circle of hell- 

"Would you chill, Sis? This is fun, act like you're not dying. 'cause, y'know. You ain't."

My head aching, I put my attention to my sister, the lavender to my mint. Spire had entered, the moment the wheels started rolling, a comfortable silence with a kid - I caught the name of Talula - and by now she's managed some conversation cycling about characters. 

I answer, "My head is dying. I'm dying. I want to 'chill', but I am dying."

"This was your idea," Spire pokes.

Talula leans further over the back of the seat she claimed. "Oh, you have a headache? I think I have some aspirin..." She's digging through her pockets.

"Throw on this camp shirt, you said!" Spire continued. We were locked in now; not ignoring her new friend out of rudeness. Getting into a banter was a package deal, since the both of us could lose track of what was around us. "So I threw on the shirt. Sneak onto that bus, you said. So I tip-toed onto the bus, silent as a serpent! Did what you asked, and here we are. If you're dying, it's 'cause you buried yourself here."

"If anyone is dying," I say, pointing to her camp shirt, and the long sleeved undershirt making a bloody red fashion crime to her pastel colors, "it would be you. How are you not caught with heat stroke? It's eighty degrees out there."

Spire hisses. Her wings wrap around her frame. "It's cooold! The AC's blasting in here, how can anybody stand it?"

Ah, yes. The curse of the cold blooded. Or the curse of the Spire in need of more iron in her diet.

"You'd be surprised how codependent humans have gotten on air conditioning."

"Fine. I might regret the undershirt later. But hecking heck, I'm wearing this, it looks nice on me!"

Rolling my eyes, I turn away, conveniently when Talula produces two tiny white tablets, which I take with thanks, and a dry swallow. 

She asks the both of us, "So, what are you doing here? I thought this camp was for kids..."

Guess our acting isn't exactly banger.

And, in honesty, I confess I must have confused those yet to be in the know, since you've read "wings" and "scales" and "cold blooded" without the correct context.

"We snuck in!" Spire says and pumps her fists like this is supposed to be a proclamation, and it is for any kid in the closest three rows. "In case you didn't hear."

Ignoring my sister, I say, "Introductions are in order. We're dragons. We, from our cozy corner of the Void, narrate stuff our characters do and say, and that about covers who we are. You could read between the lines for the rest of our selves."

Talula seems impressed by that, intrigued to know more, possibly. "Cool... so how many times have you used that speech?"

"Wh-"

Spire snorts, leaning into me. Shoving her off, I keep my snout shut.

"We're here," she answers the original question, "because, well, you know how rough of a year it's been, and Intern and I weren't affected any less. We needed a break from home, and- Intern worded it better, but going somewhere else and seeing all our closest friends again seemed the right course."

"Oh..." Talula wrings her hands a little, looking off to the side. "This is my first year, too. I'm hoping to have a good time, make and see some friends myself. I hear Camp Streamix is chaotic, way more than your usual summer camp, but it's great regardless. There's some that are going their third year, I hear."

If there were some who survived two years, was my deduction, what threat of death would come to us void dragons? It was the correct style of chaotic to draw our weary, fraying minds away from that of the current real world.

So here would we go, into the dragon's maw that is Camp Streamix.

In between the potholes that throw half of the seated, myself included, at the padded backs, we trade snippets of conversation. Some of it veers back to our characters; some of it, to Talula's preferred interest in art, drawing her friends in wacky group poses. A worthy inclusion. All our characters, I weighed in, were the fictional kinds, yet real in our hearts, which counted. The dream of our names on purchased books would not yet die. When Talula asked what our characters were like, I waved the girl to Spire; though smooth as an amateur jogger dashing over rocky terrain, it was she with the passion, it was she who knew how to give each name heart and soul. Often, I was the one who felt more comfortable listening, hearing for myself what the stranger's soul was like before dipping a toe in. Dip I did soon enough, for the inevitable question of my name rears. The question varied; most common version was, "Who/what company are you interning for?"

That, and "You must have it rough if even you go by "Intern".

Talula's version of the question, and I quote it as such: "Is Intern your real name?"

I answered in the affirmative. Nudged for elaboration, I told her it was all I've ever known myself to be, and it had a nice ring to it. Spire and the Intern, the Twin Void Dragons. For our characters, Spire had the steel reins of the grand story that was their lives; sometimes, she couldn't be there, or needed a break from all the writing. Hence, me: The Intern.

And all through her life, I was here, and here always I would be. Spire is my world.

The bus pulls up short, and once again most of us get thrown forward, this time for an actual reason. A fallen tree in the middle of the dirt road, us kiddies and dragons must walk the rest of the way. I ask Talula if she was coming with us, but she is digging through her luggage, and motions us to not wait on her.

Perhaps later. I need more friends, and she was good to my sister... maybe she would pick Team Fallen, and we could bunk together, get another chance to talk. 

In the line to get off, Spire squeals as she hops in place, a jumping bean among the... um... black-eyed peas that sit dormant. Since... tight, narrow bus, and whoever's at the door is taking their time getting out.

"There's a lot. Like, so many."

I say, "CS has boomed bigger every year."

"Those poor counselors," she says. "The four of them in charge of hundreds of us... they can't keep us all out!" A devilish grin, she clacks her talons.

"First of all, this isn't Area 51. Also, us, two hundred at most. They're capable, I think." We get closer to the door, touching freedom. "Wait, you have our bags, right?"

Spire holds up the faded duffel bag with my name written in sharpie on a sticker under the zipper, and her own backpack that bulges. The toiletry essentials, and books. Literally all she brought because she caught wind of a book club.

"Uh, not true! I got my Switch. And my iPod. My phone, my movies, my writing journals and gel pens. And my pencils and Christmas coloring book."

I could swear someone was cursing in Russian, and making mutters that I guess were pleas to not bring Christmas before July.

"Good. Good good good. I, um, should warn you, they're going to confiscate electronics at the gate. So... don't get attached."

Hissing, Spire clutches her backpack close. "They're gonna have to pry 'em from my cold, dead talons."

"Spire. There is a counselor who will take that statement literal. Is our life really worth less that boxes and rectangles of electricity?"

"Noooooo. But I still would like to try and preserve my escapisms."

I could have pointed out that Camp Streamix was our escapism, but by the time the mental sentence forms, she's unzipped her bag, taken the devices, and stuffed them inside the membranes of her wings, tucking said wings to her back. Her choice was made, and with a grand, "Ta-da!"

Rolling my eyes, I take the final steps out from the crawling line and breathe the real summer air. It, and the aspirin Talula gave me, is enough to drive the headache away.

Then I topple over the camper who was glued in place a second too long. 

I misjudged that last stair, lost my balance, and the kids ahead, having the smarts to scatter, leave this landing pad in the shape of a fifteen year old on fire for this clumsy dragon. Together we go down, and not without a few surprise burns.

"Ah, Intern, nice of you to drop in." The boy sits up, and would be smirking, had he any facial features. The core of his "face", a portion of emerald flame, turns to a deep malachite, and the blue lick of ember atop his head sways.

Pyro, narrator like Spire and I. Second year camper, heavily D&D keen, and a major in memes. I would assume he's joining Team Fallen and/or Annihilation (apparently multiple team loyalties are allowed? Spire and I are purists, though). And yes, the fire is normal, he's a fire genasi, and will burn a person if he doesn't see a toppling dragon behind himself.

"Bold of you to assume I am a fire genasi," says Pyro, dusting himself off. "Fire elemental. I could tell you all the differences between me and a fire genasi, whom are much more sophisticated and not totally made of fire-"

"Aaah, no thank you! No thank you!" I scamper off, hoping Spire would follow. We were in too much of a hurry for another D&D disquisition. 

We have a mile to jog 'till we officially enter the Thunderdome, two hundred kids versus four adults - chance of five, if word of the cabin for public announcements and finances was true. One group alone would survive. And you could bet there would be one lawsuit for every two children dead by August. That rainbow arch invites naivety, preying on cinnamon rolls. The way goes smooth, painless, for me, but for Spire...

"Sister?" I slow, looking about. Only the bus, the woods, the river of kids. It thickens by the moment that is marked by shrieked curses in the direction of the arch. "Spire?" Waddling in a tiny circle, I scan the river, and my reward comes in the form of a mass of grey and white latching to my face. The impish giggles confirm it. "Et tu, Deerfox?"

"Awwwww! I didn't even get to say guess who yet!" squeaks a voice different from the imp's that sounds to be only now coming over. Bubbly, pure, and I swear made of sunlight like the Grand Scoutmaster. Something moves, and a different hand goes over my left eye. "Imma say it anyway. Guess who?"

Gauging the extremities as a furry paw and a human hand, I play along. "Gee, I don't know. Is it an adorable Otter? And a talented Riku?"

"Ooh, good guess," says the first.

"Staaahp it."

"Let me see people and maybe I will," I say.

A second giggle, and the hand and paw is removed. "Hiiiii," says the owner of that paw. Her rectangular glasses and fanged smile complete a sly soul. Side by side, she stands next to the human girl, who stands next to Spire, who stifles a snort.

"Hi!" says the human.

"Heya," says Spire.

"Hello," says me. 

Otter and Riku: our best friends since the beginning of Camp Streamix, and loyalists to Team Murder since. Also narrators of their characters. Otter would be the human, clad in red flannel and cheshire grins, and is also made of cinnamon, fluff, and a pinch of the salt that is angst, which could really equate to a mountain, depending on when a punching bag is required.

In other words, a writer, like us!

Riku's immense talent is geared toward art, and she is a literal deer-fox, though if she were given a dragon's wings, she would be closer to her truest self. Do not steal her tablet. Or her smols (tiny children characters). She will stab a beeyatch.

Says Otter, "Hi! I thought you weren't going to make it."

"We wouldn't ditch you guys to have all the fun," I answer.

Riku pokes Spire, ears twitchy. "How'd you get on the bus?"

"Illegally," whispers Spire. "Please don't tell anyone." To which, Otter slings her arm over Spire's shoulder and paps her head (it took some crouching on Spire's part).

I reassure her, "They'll never find us out."

"Uhh.... good luck?" Riku takes us closer to the front gate and points at the four prongs of lines, where four adults with clipboards address each, one at a time. "All the names are being checked out. What kind of illegal did you do getting here?"

"Sneaking on a bus? And Intern said she snagged us camp shirts." Spire squeezes her knuckles and plays with a ring.

"So your names aren't on the list?" Riku thumps her foot. "This is fun... they already yote Billy out. By canon. At least four times."

Spire's ear twitches. "Um, cannon? Like... boom boom, fire you to the moon!"

"Nah. Canon. He's not written as a camper. And Murder Bitch is getting creative with the killing."

Otter shudders, "But he keeps coming back."

I smack my lips, watching the menace get eviscerated from existence a fifth time. Murder was looking... trigger happy. If canon was a dire matter, we were next on her silver platter. If she found us out.

"Spire. Take the journal."

...heya! Um, this is Spire now. Yaaay.

So, that thing about us being narrators? It's not hyperbole. And also probably complicated, so Imma say that Intern shoved me the journal she had been writing-slash-projecting her thoughts onto, and now I'm doing the same, telling what's going on.

You with me?

If not, I am so, so sorry. I'm the scatterbrain.

Anyways, we're stuck in the middle of this flowing throng, there's a hundred yards between us and the counselors, and it's so thick around that we have to keep moving. Riku reaches for my arm, but in the chaos brought on by the Grand Scoutmaster yelling for kids to hurry up because orientation is in ten minutes, she and Otter get yanked away, drifting down the river, 'till they're seven kids apart.

I can almost see the exact hue of Murder God's six eyes.

Intern rubs her tongue on her teeth, something she always does when in scrambling thought. Looking bunk out of ideas, I offer one: pleading mercy and offering our services. Surely the Roadies cabin could use a couple dish scrubbers? But this gets shot down with a snarl that comes out sounding like a sore throat cough, and the closest campers weave swiftly around, gifting to us our place in the back of the line.

One counselor murderous. Another, bombastically eccentric. Still another, more likely to grab popcorn and watch the show that would follow. And the fourth, whose calls for common sense would be drowned out by the others. Mercy favors are out the door. That same door gets another wedge by my sister's pride when I think about fleeing to the bus.

"Those who are one minute late," says the Murder God, "will replace our target bears during stabbing lessons~" She slaps a hand over the Grand Scoutmaster's mouth when he tries to correct her. "Shh, shh, the goddess is speaking." 

Our friends are in the the prongs, Riku to Counselor Alex, Otter, to Murder God. They whirl back sometimes, given pauses on the counselors' parts, but my maw stays closed. I have no scoundrel's heart, not a bit of that special kind of selfishness to make them fish us out. Having no choice but to step inside camp, they tie on bandannas for Team Murder.

The hard dirt of the road changes to shifty gravel. And, at my sleeves, I feel a dampness, a stifling crawl under my camp shirt as the fabric sticks to me. Intern was right.

I mumble, "We could-"

"No. We came this close. There is shame in quitting here-"

A boom cracks over our heads. Intern shrieks and jumps back, and everybody ahead of us look to the clouds, which is where I find my head turning. Like the sun coming out from an eclipse, a mass emerges from behind the clouds and zips toward us. Specifically toward us, the dragons.

Snatching Intern's arm, I yank her in time for a kid with wings to crash at where she had been. Upon this kid's back is a boy of impossible height for his age and another kid, of short and curly blond hair, and a hoodied person whose face is shrouded was hanging from the legs. The curly haired kid climbs down and curls up where they find solid ground.

"Never do that again," they say, trembling like it were they who got the sonic boom of an interruption and saw a multi-limbed mass, not us. 

Chatter ripples like a disturbed lake from behind us, and these snippets of whispers reveal the two hundred hearts that bolted a little faster, a little more of those happy brain chemicals surging through the synapeses. What else would you feel to seeing some of the legends of Camp Streamix make an entrance of glory?

Indeed, none other than the Chaos Trio, the domination of last year. Still their tales float above the breath of the wind.

Kyle of Team Kyle (under the spray paint it's Team Fallen). He. Is. Loaded. He once dropped a thousand hecking dollars on a Fallen Empires stream and pushed Counselor Alex to an early victory. They say the second coming of the one thousand dollar bit bomb is upon us this year, and I could believe it. Say your prayers, other teams!

Ana of Team Fallen. Runs the book club that I got myself hopping wild for, and is elbow deep in the creative arts. Also the least chaotic of the trinity, but that doesn't say a whole lot. They do glimmering, intricate character designs and scenes of nature, but this is up for debate; their fans say yes, they say hard no.

And Churro, Team Murder. The Almighty Theorist.

They are a mythic gremlin.

Also, Waffle. Waffle is the honorary fourth member. Can be a literal waffle, or this human shape as he's shown himself today. He sides with Team Fallen, too, and has trolled me more times than I can count the clouds. In a big brother way.

"Camp Streamix dead ahead!" crows Waffle. "Come along, then." He strides past Intern, then spots me. "Oh hey, it's a Spire!" Looping an arm around my long neck, I'm pulled into a hug. "Didn't think we'd see ya here. How are you?"

"Oh, um... we're okay, I guess." I wince as there's another warning, and I waddle further down the line - Waffle still clinging on. Churro narrows their eyes, and Ana looks between Intern and I.

"...you snuck in, didn't you?" says Churro.

Intern opens her mouth.

"And your names aren't on the clipboards, right?" adds Kyle.

Intern takes this big breath that expands her chest like a balloon. She gives up and nods. I do, too, deciding there's not much better for me to include.

"Well." Kyle stretches his arms, pops some joints, and looks ahead. Otter and Riku hang by the arch, watching. "Well, can't have some friends kicked out before they can stir a lil' chaos, too." A courteous smile to my sister, and he asks, "You mind if we cut ahead?"

"Um... no, don't mind at all." Backing up, she allows the way, and Kyle waves the group to follow.

I squeak, looking to Intern. Had I not decided my friends shouldn't fish us out? "Guys...?"

Waffle turns back. "Chill behind us. Looks like your buddies ahead'll fill in the slot we can't." And he jogs to close the missing distance.

I didn't mean for them to help. This feels wrong. Manipulative. I would have asked.

"No... we wouldn't have." Intern points her gaze to me. "We would have stayed silent, and let our fates be the most unfortunate." She takes the next few steps, the line moving, and splitting here. I find myself going toward Annihilation, and Intern's in for the Roadies. "And we aren't manipulative. The first thought in our minds would have been of their legend, and how they could help us. Not -" and she rocks on her heels "- of the things that make them their kind of special. The most beautiful special that's in us all. Not to be cheesy."

"Too late." I turn back to the front of the line, and now I see what they are doing.

Waffle's also in the prong for Annihilation, and has signed in, but he chats with Xander as he ties his yellow bandanna. Behind Xander, Riku tiptoes, sneaking. Fluffy fox tail wagging a mile a minute, toothy grin curling, she reaches for the clipboard.

A check on my sister confirms it; Ana has snagged the Grand Scoutmaster's attention as she recieves two bandannas and a wristband, and Otter inches close, reaching under the Scoutmaster's arm. Kyle and Churro are talking to Alex and Murder God, respectively, to keep attention off the crime.

So there's what Waffle meant by Riku and Otter "filling the slot". His advice keeps me planted. I have to, since the line is held up.

All I have is fidgeting, my racing heart, my tacked undershirt, a weight that slams harder at every glance to Xander, gripping his clipboard a bit firmer, or the Grand Scoutmaster waving his out of Otter's reach to swat gnats away. I trust them, all of them. But it's a sickening weight, waiting for the doom or success that teeters on a pinhead. The familar weight of my devices is my only grounding, a reminder to focus on the tunes I could be hearing tonight, when we're all supposed to be asleep, or the island I could be exploring while seated on the dock.

I dare to peek. Waffle's got the clipboard! He swats (I guess) an imaginary gnat and pretends to drop it, which is when Riku dives in, popping a pen. For Intern, Otter looks hecking nervous, halfway getting her hand on the clipboard before drawing back, hand halway there, drawing back.

Dude, what a mood. I'd be trapped in the same place.

But she breathes out, pokes the Grand Scoutmaster, and appears to ask him a question. During this, Ana swipes the clipboard, a seamless motion like that tablecloth trick, and looks to Intern, who must be giving her name.

It's all a nudge of Riku's hind paw and Ana's cautious hand work, and all becomes, to the eye, pure, innocent, shameless.

They wait ahead now, Otter and Riku, and the Chaos Trio, admiring their act of mischief. I don't mind my sister, because the ending is the same.

"Alright, squirt. Your name?" Xander's attention is fully on the clipboard, like he feels there is something off.

"Um, Spire." I nod to myself.

"Hmm... waiiit a minute." He glowers at me.

Uh oh.

And he takes a big step closer, making me step back. My heart does that thing, brings a cold sweat to the back of my neck. Until...

"We have no record of an 'Um Spire' here." At my noise of confusion, he cackles and slaps my shoulder. "Last guy in has to get teased somehow. Better than being up for Murder's target practice, right?"

"I... yeah, right. Hah... heh."

"So, Spire. Welcome to Camp Streamix. What's your loyalty to?"

"My team...?" I look to my undershirt, the sleeves dark from the broiling humidity. All along I knew. My subconscious said so when I'd thrown this on. "Team Murder, please."

Xander scoffs. "Should've known. You're sporting red before you even cross the gates." He takes a red bandanna from a box and passes it over. "Welcome to Camp Streamix," he says again, and waves me off. "Oh, wait!" Reaching in the box for something else, he grumbles, "Courtesy of the Lady in Red. Try not to stab anything living. Except bears, and my obstacle course dummies."

I'm sure my gasp, my glittering eyes, and my wide open mouth concerns him.

But who cares? I got my own knife! And it's black, and has the four stars at the hilt and...

...aaaand it's cardboard, isn't it.

Whatever.

I love it, and it's mine now.

"Oh dear. Spire, please do not tell me I have to have you on a leash." Intern catches up to me, sporting Team Fallen around her neck - a hecking lot of supporters for Fallen every year, huh?

"Chill, sis. It's cardboard." I stab her, which, of course, is but a poke that glances off her scales, and we walk into camp. The main grounds, currently, have a bunch of kids exploring every cobwebbed corner, every bear infested tree withing the boundary.

"Good, good. Because you are one of the least responsible people to have a knife. Which describes pretty much everyone else here." She hops back as a trio barrels by.

"Mm." I take a look at the cabins. Like the arrows of a compass, they are symetrically set, all pointed to the grand fire pit dug six feet in to make a legendary marshmallow roasting competition. Or a sweet backdrop to a spooky ghost story, or atmosphere to one's reading time. And Cabin Murder and Cabin Fallen were across from each other; so my sis and I could wave before lights out! And we'd still see each other during camp activities. "So. We're in."

Intern waits, because Ana comes over to confirm I'll see her in book club, to which I raise my duffle bag of books. That brings a smile to her face, and she's carried off by the call of exploration before orientation. "Yep. We are in."

"You're going to remember to say thanks, right?"

"Of course. I will, promise. You know running or begging would have been pitiful, though."

"It might have worked..."

"Not as well as this. Not nearly as well."

I punch Intern's arm. "Come on. We got saved by pure luck. And the power of friendship!"

She rolls her eyes. "Riiiiiight. Oh, um... Darby, he told me some good news. Cell phones are allowed on camp grounds. So... that's one less thing to worry about hiding. He said if campers want to tweet stuff about our adventures, there's no use restricting that kind of device."

"Ooh..." Opening one wing, I withdraw my brick of a phone, a fox charm dangling from the case. "We could tell so many stories over the summer!"

"Mhm."

"And get away with so much chaos, and live to tell of it!"

"Okay, cool it a little, we have still committed a crime."

I rope in our friends, who happen to right then come in friend-roping proximity - the yelps are lovely song notes in this anthem of a summer dream.

There would be a later time in which Intern assured me that it really was okay that we would be apart, on opposing teams; opportunity for her to connect better with Talula and Pyro - and hear all about these fire genasi to correct the misunderstanding - and make new friends; and opportunity for me to hang out more with Otter and Riku, and whoever else I might run into. And to stab a bunch of things on Xander's obstacle course!

"Not if we get away with it all summer," I tell Intern. And she knew she couldn't argue on that. "Twin Void Dragons, right?"

Intern rolls her eyes, and Otter and Riku giggle next to me. "Twin Void Dragons," she concedes, and she puts herself in the group hug, between Riku and I.

It's going to be a beautiful freaking summer.


End file.
